Before
by xox.MyWorldIsDifferent.xox
Summary: They were Strike Team Delta long before S.H.I.E.L.D stepped in. Natasha and Clint, and how they became two of the world's most deadly assassins. Completely AU
1. Prologue

**This is completely AU and follows Clint and Natasha throughout high school and then on into S.H.I.E.L.D. I won't lie; it may get angsty.**

**Updates could be slow. I'm very sorry about that.**

**Also, this fic contains mentions of child abuse, sexual abuse and torture. It will also feature child abuse, torture scenes, swearing, maybe graphic violence, and other things that I will warn about at the start of the chapter it's in. I don't want anyone to be triggered by these things so please read at your own risk. At this stage it may not get violent at all, but I need to clear this up if I'm going to continue with my original plan for this story.**

**Okay, that was long. Thank you for reading and please review! x**

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There was the sound of a bird chirping somewhere by Clint's right ear, and he slowly turned, nocking an arrow and aiming it in the general direction of the birdsong.

The forest stilled for half a moment as Clint narrowed his eyes, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the bird. And then there was a small snap from behind him, and without thinking he swivelled, overbalanced, and sent an arrow flying towards a tree branch off to his left.

The arrow embedded easily in the bark of the tree. To Clint's surprise, a small hand reached down and pulled it out, held it in midair for a second, and then let it drop.

Clint froze as he made eye contact with a little girl who sat nestled amongst the leaves, her hair a shocking red he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed before. She licked her lips and brought her hand back to rest in her lap.

"You almost shot me."

Clint blinked twice, trying to clear his head. He'd come to the forest because he was going to run away; he knew that was real. But the girl in the tree couldn't possibly be real. It was too weird. He turned his back to her, counted to ten, and turned to face her. She was still there, frowning slightly and swinging her feet. He narrowed his eyes and took a step back.

"Who are you?" he asked, glancing nervously at the arrow that still lay beneath her branch.

She followed his gaze and in one swift motion launched herself out of the tree, landing on the balls of her feet. She was shorter and thinner than Clint, and had pale skin that showed blue veins on her wrists when she held her arms at the wrong angle.

He knew he needed to act fast here if he wanted to put some distance between himself and the tree girl. As she stooped to pick up his arrow he ran forward, caught her waist and pushed her to the ground, hoping to get his arrow and disappear before things could get any weirder. The girl fought back, however, smashing her elbow into his chin and knocking him backwards. Before he could react she was sitting on his stomach, glaring dangerously at him and holding his arrow at his neck.

Clint gulped.

"Who are you?" she growled, and despite the situation Clint actually smirked.

"I asked you first."

He watched her carefully as she decided on whether or not to answer. Finally, she sat up a little and said, "Natalia Romanova. No. _No_. Natasha Romanoff."

She was very obviously confused, and Clint almost felt a little bad for her. But she was heavier than she looked, and he was getting angry at being pinned by a girl for so long. "Well, which is it?" he demanded.

She looked at him sharply. "My real name is Natalia. But we changed it to Natasha whilst I'm here."

"So... Natasha?" Clint ventured, and when she nodded he relaxed his face into an easy grin. "I'm Clint Barton. I'm ten. How old are you?"

"Nine" she answered sourly, and he could tell from her expression that she didn't like the idea of being younger than him.

"Do you want to get off me?" Clint said, pushing at her hips. "And give me my arrow back, maybe?"

Natasha stood and moved stiffly to the side, allowing him the space to get up. When he reached for her arrow she held it behind her back, shaking her head.

"No" she told him. "Why do you have a bow and arrow anyway?"

"Because I use it to shoot things. I like archery. Is that a crime?" he snapped.

Natasha snorted. "Bow and arrows are medieval."

"They might be medieval but it did a pretty good job of almost killing you a minute ago."

Natasha froze and, with a great sigh, handed back his arrow.

"Are you new? I haven't seen you at school" Clint asked as he checked the arrow for any discrepancies. Finding none, he tucked it back into his quiver gently.

"I just moved here. From Russia. With my uncle" Natasha said hastily, looking extremely uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was headed.

"Where are your parents?" Clint said. He'd never heard of anyone living with their uncles before, especially anyone moving from Russia to live with their uncles. It was almost like something he'd seen on TV once.

"Dead" she said evenly, staring at him.

He felt his lips quirk up despite his efforts to stop it. "Sorry. That must suck."

She shrugged. He trailed off, scuffed his boot in the dirt, looked at the trees and then heard himself say, "I wish my parents would die sometimes."

Natasha sucked in a sharp breath. "No you don't. _Mudak_."

"I don't know what that means. But yes, I do sometimes. My dad's not a nice person."

"At least he's alive" Natasha countered, and Clint felt his anger bubble up again. Who was this girl to tell him what he should or shouldn't want?

"My dad beats me up when he gets drunk" Clint snapped, and he didn't know why he was telling a strange girl this when he couldn't even admit it to his mother. "He almost broke my ribs last month."

"You should have fought back" Natasha said evenly. She took a step forward and placed her hands on her hips. "It's not hard."

"I'm ten!" Clint cried, clenching his fists. "He's double my size and double my weight and double my age and _my dad_!"

"I fought a man double my size and weight and age and _I _was the one to walk away from it" Natasha growled, and Clint felt something drop in his stomach. A sick sense of fear twisted inside of him as he watched Natasha breathe heavily.

"That's great for you" Clint said sarcastically. "I'm glad your uncle or whoever let you _pretend_ to beat them up. How considerate."

"I'm a Russian spy. When I beat someone up, they are usually not pretending to let me do it."

Silence. Natasha's eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth as though trying to force the words back in. Her fingertips turned white from the pressure and for a moment Clint thought she was going to put her whole hand through her face.

Then, quite unexpectedly, she started to cry, and all Clint could say was, "well shit. I think you win."

Natasha almost smiled at that, but she also looked like she was about to be sick, so the effect was lost.

"You... I... please, you cannot tell anyone" she begged him, swiping angrily at her tears. "I'm _so stupid_. I'm not here to hurt anyone. Ivan... my uncle... he brought me here to further my education but... please, Clint."

"I just met you" Clint said in disbelief, sitting down in the dirt and plucking at grass. "This doesn't happen in real life." He pinched himself and watched her shudder, wrapping her arms around herself as though trying to hold everything together.

For the first time in his life, Clint felt sympathetic. It was obvious the girl was terrified, and he couldn't begin to imagine what punishment would await a _nine year old Russian spy_ who had forgotten to keep her own secret for one tiny moment. He felt something burn inside of him and shook his head slowly, ashamed at even beginning to feel afraid of this girl.

"This is stupid," he said. "You're just Natasha, the girl who I almost killed because she was hiding in a tree. Not some super scary person or something."

Natasha exhaled and slowly sat down across from him, folding her bare feet beneath her legs. "I won't tell about your dad if you don't tell about me" she whispered. At his look of confusion, she continued on just as softly. "I know you haven't told anyone else Clint Barton. And I know your dad would get in big trouble if someone found out about it."

Clint sagged in defeat and nodded. "Yea. Yea, he would."

Natasha held her hand out to him. "My name is Natasha Romanoff. I'm... training, to be a spy. I shouldn't have told you."

Clint grasped her hand within his own and smiled. "My name is Clint Barton. My dad beats me up. I shouldn't have told you."

They dropped each other's hands and sat very still, suddenly feeling rather awkward. Then Clint stood, picked up his bow from where he had dropped it, and watched Natasha also get to her feet.

"Maybe we can be friends" he suggested, watching her face go slack of emotion. "Friends usually share secrets with each other."

"Maybe" Natasha echoed.

"I would like to be your friend" he tried again, and that almost smile was back on her face.

"I would like to be your friend, too" she said gently. "If you don't think I'm a bad person."

"No, like I said, you're just Natasha from the tree" Clint responded. "My secret keeper. My secret keeper named Natasha from the tree."

She shook her head and fell into step beside him as they left the safety of the forest behind them.

"But really Clint, not a word" she whispered as they walked, and as soon as he had the chance he hooked his pinky finger through hers, grinning like an idiot.

"I pinky promise" he told her. "Friends don't break pinky promises."

The feeling of her hand brushing against his own was just enough to get him home and make him forget about ever running away.

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**Translations (sorry for any inaccuracy!):**

**Mudak= Asshole.**


	2. Chapter 1

**Quick filler that I had to get out of my head. **

**Warning: mentions of child abuse.**

**Please review x**

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Clint cradled his fractured wrist awkwardly to his chest and tried to ignore the itch he felt as he watched Natasha climb higher up the tree at the end of his backyard. She swung gracefully from branch to branch, occasionally stumbling on rough pieces of bark and having to hang precariously as she regained her balance.

Clint groaned and sat at the base of the tree, rolling his shoulder uncomfortably. "I hate this sling!" he yelled up to Natasha, tilting his head to get a better view of her. He picked at the material of the sling and scowled.

"You'll get over it!" she called back, finally finding a branch thick enough for her to sit on. She swung her legs and looked out over Clint's backyard, mentally cataloguing all of the possible routes in and out.

"Nope" Clint decided, shaking his head. He pulled the sling off from around his neck and tossed it to the ground beside him. "I'm not wearing it."

Natasha didn't respond. He sighed dramatically and tugged at a tree root with his good hand, watching it pull from the ground and splatter dirt over his shorts.

"It's not fair" he said grumpily. "I can't do _anything_. It's so boring."

He heard the slight rustle of leaves a second before Natasha landed beside him. She had scraped her knees somehow and bent to examine the angry red flesh, brushing her fingers over the wounds to wipe away the tiny droplets of blood. Then she flopped down beside him on her back and picked a handful of daisies.

She had already strung five together when she rolled her around to see what Clint was doing. "Have you always been deaf?" she asked, and tapped her ear as if to show him what she was talking about.

Clint chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought about how to answer. "Have you always been a Russian spy?" he countered.

Natasha smirked. "I asked you first."

Clint sat up a little straighter and searched around for a stick he could use to scratch under his cast. "I wasn't born with it. My dad made me deaf, when I was six. Had a little too much to drink. I don't remember what happened."

Natasha was quiet as she threaded another daisy onto her chain. Then, she exhaled loudly and said, "that sucks."

Clint clenched his jaw and nodded. "Yea. Your turn."

"I wasn't always either. Ivan started my training when I was four" Natasha told him. "It's like a big school, the Red Room. That's what it feels like anyway."

"Do you have brothers or sisters?" Clint asked. He hadn't learnt much about Natasha in the three months that he'd known her, except that she was an extremely private person who lived with a man that actually wasn't her uncle.

"I don't think so" she responded vaguely, finishing her daisy chain and holding it out to examine.

Clint frowned. "How do you not know?"

"I... I have memories, of life before the school, but I don't know if they're all real" she explained carefully. "They change everything about you there."

Clint didn't really understand what she was talking about. Natasha could be rather vague sometimes and he was always a little nervous to keep pushing her for answers. He figured if she wanted him to know then she would tell him, sooner or later.

As if reading his mind, she began to speak again. "They play with your brain. They put fake stories in there and they feel real, but it's only a lie."

"Wow" Clint said, finding it difficult to think of what to say. As strange as it sounded, he found that he believed everything she was saying; from the small snippets she'd revealed about her past, he had come to realise that she had come from a very unforgiving place. "Does that mean they did it to you?" he asked softly.

Natasha delicately placed the daisy chain on top of her head and sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. "Yes, I think. There are big black holes where there shouldn't be."

She trailed off and Clint swallowed all of his other questions, deciding that she'd shared enough today. He found a thin enough stick and stuck it down his cast gratefully, sighing in relief. Natasha tore her gaze away from the back door of Clint's house and glanced at his arm.

"When do you get the cast off?"

"Another four weeks" he groaned, slumping down in defeat. "Unless it heals super fast."

"Where'd your dad go?" Natasha asked quietly, looking up to meet his gaze. Clint felt his stomach clench at the mention of his father and took a deep, unsteady breath. His right arm throbbed beneath the cast and he suddenly felt nauseas.

"I don't know" he managed to spit out. "I don't care."

Natasha bit her lip and tilted her head to the side, letting her red curls fall over her shoulder in an unruly tangle. The daisy chin slipped and fell over one of her ears but she made no move to fix it. "Did he leave when he found out?"

"He left when mum rang from the hospital, I suppose" Clint said, trying hard to not look like he was about to cry. "He's, uh, he's never broken a bone before."

A fractured wrist and a few large bruises along his torso and back were the physical evidence of his father's latest outburst, but Clint found that he was also struggling mentally in a way he never had before; he could barely think about his father without feeling sick now, and he'd awoken countless times over the past few nights from nightmares.

It was true that Clint's father had never broken one of his son's bones before this instance. Mr Barton, despite being blind drunk, usually had enough sense to stop himself from leaving any visible marks. Clint had never been sure if he was grateful for this or not.

After it was discovered that Clint was deaf, Mr Barton had also packed up then and left for a few weeks, leaving his wife to look after her two young sons. Clint felt that he owed his mother more than he could ever repay her for sticking around and helping him with his new disability. He knew that not many kids had somebody who would that for them.

Natasha scooted an inch closer to him and raised her arm to lie on his leg, but she hesitated and let it hover between them for a moment. He understood the gesture and nodded at her, blinking back angry tears.

"So what do you do when you don't have your aids in?" she asked, quickly changing the subject.

He made a gesture with his hands and watched her stare in confusion, grinning like mad when he realised she had absolutely no idea what he was doing. "Sign language" he elaborated. "I learnt it after the accident. Mum knows a bit too, but not much."

Natasha looked enthralled. "Teach me?"

"If you teach me Russian" he compromised. "Then no one will know what we're saying."

"_Da_" Natasha agreed, and then spat on the palm of her hand and held it out to him. He did the same and they shook on it, wiping their hands on their shorts when they broke apart.

"I thought we did pinky promises?" Clint said, pretending to look offended.

"We can do both" Natasha told him. Her expression softened as she glanced at the setting sun. "I should go home."

"Really?" Clint failed to hide the disappointment in his voice as Natasha stood and stretched. He really didn't want her to leave but he knew she couldn't stay forever. When she nodded he stood too and they slowly made their way back across his yard. "C'mon then. Mum will give you a ride."

"I can walk" Natasha insisted. "Don't bother her."

"You've got no shoes," he noticed. "You can't walk with no shoes."

"It's barely twenty minutes" she assured. "I'll be fine. Go have your dinner."

Clint didn't like the idea of Natasha walking home alone but knew that there was no point arguing with her. He shrugged and took a step back from her. "Sure. I'll see you at school."

She gave a little wave as she continued on her own down the driveway, the daisy chain dipping lower until it hung around her neck and dangled near her belly.

"Hey Clint?" she called back to him suddenly, pausing mid step.

"Yea Nat?" he called back, feeling a kink start to set in around his shoulder. He should've kept the damn sling on.

"What's thank you, in sign language?"

He showed her and watched as, without the slightest ounce of hesitation, she brought her fingers away from her chin in a perfect replication of his own sign, before disappearing down the dusty road.


	3. Chapter 2

**Just to clear this up (and mainly so I don't confuse myself): Clint's birthday is in January and Natasha's is in November. They met in May and Clint broke his wrist around August/September. This takes place not long after Natasha's 10th birthday in November. **

**Warning: kind of maybe child abuse. It depends on how you read it I suppose.**

**Sorry if any translations are incorrect as well. This chapter is mainly Natasha but it will be one of few. **

**Please review and thank you x**

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Natasha stood perfectly still beside Ivan, keeping her head down and her arms locked by her sides as he spoke with somebody on his phone. He was supposed to be meeting with an intelligence officer from Russia, which was the only reason he had decided to drop her off that morning; a school environment was apparently the least suspicious place for them to discuss where her training was going to go.

She could tell that people were purposefully avoiding walking too close to them. Ivan had an intimidating persona about him, even though he looked exactly like every other father that walked through the gates. Natasha forced herself to relax, letting her tiny frame stoop slightly and raising her head to scan across the playground.

She had just focused on a group of girls from her class when Ivan snapped his phone shut and moved to block her view.

"_Zhalkiy_" he muttered, giving her a once over. "_Net distsipliny_."

Natasha straightened immediately and averted her gaze to stare at Ivan's shoes. "_Izvinite_" she murmured, feeling heat rise up her neck.

Ivan pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a step away from her. "If you are not disciplined, Natalia, then you cannot expect to get very far in this program."

"I'm sorry" she repeated. "I was trying to fit in. Children in America do not stand at attention every waking minute."

Ivan glared at her, and she swallowed, regretting her words almost instantly. "The children in America are weak" he said. "You are not to fall for their stupidity."

Natasha bit her tongue until she tasted blood and fought the urge to spit it out on his shoes. She was halfway through seriously contemplating it when they were joined by the intelligence officer, who immediately bypassed Ivan to kneel in front of Natasha.

He wrapped his arms around her in an awkward hug. "_Pritvoryat'sya_" he whispered in her ear, and then said louder: "you've gotten so big little sister!"

She draped an arm around the stranger's neck and plastered on a fake smile. "I missed you so much" she gushed.

Ivan looked pleased with her and moved forward to shake hands with the man. "Mikhail, it is good to see you."

Natasha assumed that Mikhail was not the man's real name, but she also knew not to assume anything, so she let the thought leave her mind and concentrated once more on what was being said.

"She is good" Mikhail complimented, his voice soft to avoid being overheard. "But I have seen better."

Natasha's stomach dropped at the words and she noticed Ivan scowl out of the corner of her eye.

"She is ten years old and extremely excelled for her age" Ivan defended. "She is the best in her year."

Mikhail frowned and glanced back at her. "She may be the best in her year, but there will be an eleven year old who is better, and that will get her killed."

"Natalia is a fast learner. You haven't seen what she can do."

"I have just met her and can already tell that she has an attitude problem" Mikhail stated. "That could be an issue in the future."

Ivan beckoned her forward and she moved where she was told, standing by his side once more and facing Mikhail. He smiled down at her, keeping up the appearance of being her loving big brother, but she could tell that he was displeased with her.

"Was it worth bringing her here?" Ivan whispered, and Natasha felt her heart rate spike; no, she couldn't leave, not yet.

Mikhail was silent for what felt like an eternity. Then he knelt to her level again and lifted her chin so that she could meet his gaze. "Do you want to stay here?" he asked finally.

"Yes" she answered immediately, barely thinking about what she was saying. Her heart continued to hammer in her chest as she realised how desperate she might sound, so she took a deep breath and tried to gain control of her thoughts. "I think that it is beneficial to my training for me to observe another culture. It is also easier to train without having the other girls slowing me down or getting in my way."

Mikhail smirked and turned his attention back to Ivan. "I think that she will improve with a stricter schedule. I also think that she needs to spend more time at the facility in Russia to be taught how to have control of herself." He wiped a hand over his face and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know if keeping her here is a good idea."

"That's not your decision to make" Ivan hissed. The number of students entering the school had dwindled, and several teachers were beginning to usher children off of the playground and towards the classrooms. The bell would surely have to ring soon, and then she could leave this conversation and pretend that everything was okay.

She noticed Clint standing by one of the buildings on his own, watching her in concern. He saw her looking and offered a small smile and a little wave. She didn't respond, not wanting to draw any extra attention to Clint when Mikhail was around.

_Okay?_ He signed to her, and she clenched her fist by her side, moving it slowly up and down to answer him.

He frowned, and then pushed his two pointer fingers together in another question. _Hurt?_

She brought her pointer and middle fingers together and tapped them with her thumb, giving her head a slight shake. _No_.

Clint looked like he wanted to walk over to her but was thankfully stopped by one of the teachers before he could take a step. Natasha watched him walk away and let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

"Miss Romanoff, the bell will ring shortly, you need to come to class now!" the same teacher yelled to her, and she nodded quickly.

"Yes Miss Jones" she called back sweetly. "I'll just say goodbye."

She turned to Mikhail, and wrapped her arms around his waist, crushing her body to him. She _had _to stay in America. She had to prove to him that she could do this, and if that included being a convincing enough actor, than she would lay it on as thickly as possible.

If he was shocked, he didn't show it, just placed both hands on her back and smiled. "We will discuss your future in this country tonight," he told her. "Be good."

She felt his nails dig into her back and tensed, ready to pull away. He stared at her as she took a step back with her smile still firmly in place. "Bye" she said and waved, turning on her foot and skipping over to Miss Jones.

When she entered the classroom right on the bell she thought she might sag in relief, but a bigger part of her was worried about what Mikhail had said to Ivan. She took her seat and noticed that her hands were shaking; with a sick sense of dread, she realised that this was what Mikhail had spoken about.

She _had_ to improve. She had to improve, or she was going to die.

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Clint held half of his sandwich out to Natasha, frowning when she declined it and continued to dig her nails into her orange aggressively.

"Why didn't you peel it at home?" he asked as juice ran down her wrists.

"I didn't want to" she growled, wiping her sticky fingers on her shirt.

Clint watched her struggle for a minute longer before giving up on trying to get her to eat something. He leant back against the tree and turned his attention to survey the playground. "Who was that guy with you and Ivan?"

Natasha clenched her jaw. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Was he bad?"

"_Nyet_. I don't think so" she answered. She sighed and threw her orange down. "He wants me to go back to Russia. To train there."

Clint froze mid bite and took a deep breath. "Are you leaving?"

Natasha followed his gaze and watched as a group of kids gathered in a loose circle to start a game of tag. She pressed her nails into the palms of her hands and shrugged as the first kid ran off. "I don't know yet."

Clint was silent and stiff beside her, chewing his sandwich mechanically and keeping his eyes trained forward. Natasha wanted to get up and run, as fast and as far as she could, and never have to face Mikhail and Ivan ever again.

Clint seemed to finally deflate a little as he finished his mouthful. "I hope you stay" he whispered, and pressed the other half of his sandwich into Natasha's hands.

"I hope I do too" she whispered back, and took a tiny bite of his lunch.

* * *

Natasha entered her house carefully, gently shutting the door behind her and heading straight for her bedroom.

"Natalia" Ivan called, and she paused in the middle of the hall, slowly turning to the right and facing the entrance to the kitchen. Ivan sat at the table reading the newspaper, a small unassembled handgun and an egg timer by his coffee cup. He glanced at her briefly and then beckoned her forward with a wave of his hand.

Natasha's steps were calculated as she walked around to stand by his side. There was no sign of Mikhail. "Yes Ivan?"

"You are to reassemble this gun in half a minute" Ivan told her. "Or you will sleep outside."

Natasha set her backpack down by the counter and stood in front of the gun. "Glock 26, 9mm G3" she commented to herself, willing her palms to stop sweating. "10 round magazine."

Ivan didn't look at her, just started the countdown.

Natasha reached for the first thing she could grab and felt her brain speed up, her training kicking in within seconds. She blocked everything out, locked away her thoughts on school and Clint and life, and focused entirely on the gun in her hand.

She placed it back on the table, fully assembled and loaded, as the last few grains of sand in the timer hit the bottom. Ivan nodded at her and glanced over at her. "You need to be faster. Keep going until you improve."

Natasha wanted nothing more than to sit down and have a snack. She knew that she had homework as well, but Ivan wouldn't care about that; unless she shortened the time it took her to reassemble the gun, than she was never going to get it finished.

She picked up the gun again and started over, again and again and again, each time not being fast enough to please Ivan. Her back ached, her leg muscles were protesting against standing for so long and she felt light headed. She held the gun out to Ivan and refused to glance at the timer, praying that this was all she had to do.

He finished the remainder of his dinner, dinner that he had prepared almost half an hour ago, and nodded at her. "Better. You are excused."

Natasha put the gun down and walked stiffly to her bedroom with her backpack, checking the time on the clock by her bed. It was seven o'clock. She'd been standing there for almost five hours.

She groaned as she sank to the floor and pulled out the math work that was due tomorrow; though she was starving, she didn't have time to get herself dinner, and Ivan hadn't cooked extra for her. She picked up her pen and immediately dropped it again as her hand cramped, biting down on her tongue to hold back her cry of pain.

If Ivan walked in and saw her like this she would be back to Russia in a flash. The thought brought back her earlier worries of Mikhail and his visit. He had said that he would discuss her future with Ivan that night, but she hadn't heard anything about him in the time that she had been home.

She wanted to complain to Clint. She wanted him there to give her half of his sandwich and to call Ivan stupid names behind his back. She wanted to cry and scream and get that Glock 26 and shoot Mikahil between the eyes.

She took a deep breath and picked up her pen with her right hand. She was naturally left-handed, like Clint, but Ivan had beaten her until she could write with both hands and she was suddenly thankful that she could. She needed to finish this homework.

Natasha had barely began when Ivan entered, a bowl of soup in his hand and the gun in the other. He stared at her on the floor and then pointed the gun at her head, squeezing the trigger slightly and clicking the safety off. Natasha stared back, trying to keep her breathing under control.

"Up" Ivan ordered, and she stood carefully. He stepped forward until the muzzle of the gun was pressed against her forehead, and then he passed the bowl of soup to her. "Do not drape yourself over the floor and work. If I see you do that again I will shoot you. Understood?"

Natasha thought her stomach would burst from how tightly coiled it was. "_Ponyal._"

Ivan lowered the gun and made to leave. At the doorway he paused, one hand on the doorknob and the other loosely gripping the gun. "Mikhail wants you back. It took a lot for me to convince him to keep you here." Ivan toyed with the gun and released his hold on the trigger, shaking his head. "I should not have to do that Natalia. If you do not prove yourself, there is not much more I can do."

The door closed behind him, and Natasha had barely set her bowl of soup down on her desk before her legs gave way and she fell to the floor. She wasn't sure if it was from terror or relief, but she didn't care to find out.

She was staying. That was all that mattered.

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**Translations (sorry for any inaccuracy!):**

**Zhalkiy= Pathetic**

**Net distsipliny= No discipline. **

**Izvinite= Sorry.**

**Pritvoryat'sya= Pretend.**

**Nyet= No.**

**Ponyal= Understood. **


	4. Chapter 3

**So there's been a bit of a time jump here; Clint is now 12 and Natasha is 11. This story takes place in June two years after Clint and Natasha met.**

**I'm not entirely sure about this chapter - I feel like it switches between scenes too much - but this should hopefully be one of the last ones that jumps the timeline around. If things go to plan the next few chapters will be more angsty. **

**Translations are at the end. I don't really think there needs to be a warning either. **

**I hope you enjoy and please review x**

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The rain hadn't stopped since that morning, and the usually dusty dirt road was now a long strip of clay like mud that stuck to anything that crossed it.

Clint jumped over a puddle only to land in another one that soaked through his sneakers and into his socks, making walking an unpleasant task. He had given up on trying to remain dry five minutes after leaving school and was drenched from head to foot, save for his upper torso which was protected by his raincoat.

Behind him Natasha bypassed the puddle and picked her way through the grass on the side of the road carefully, hands tucked firmly into her pockets. Her vibrant red curls were plastered to her head and neck and she was sporting what appeared to be a permanent frown as she caught up to Clint.

"This is fun" he commented dryly. "I guess I won't have to shower tonight."

"Shut up Barton" Natasha growled, though the effect of her threatening tone was lost as water dripped down her nose.

"C'mon Nat" Clint exclaimed, raising his arms to the sky. "This is great! Lighten up!"

A crack of thunder sounded and Natasha's scowl deepened. "Shut up. _Mudak_."

Clint laughed and shook out his dripping hair. "I still don't know what that means" he told her. "If I knew what it meant I might be more insulted."

Natasha groaned and picked up her pace, squinting through the heavy rain to try and find Clint's house. The wind had picked up and Natasha shivered as it whipped around her slight frame, hunching her shoulders against the force of it. Clint noticed her discomfort and bounded forward, accidently splattering the back of her legs with more mud before he wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her to his side.

Natasha acted without thinking, slamming her elbow into Clint's ribs and sweeping his legs out from under him in one quick motion, intent on disabling him as quickly as possible. He fell heavily into the mud, hand caught in her backpack, and she lost her footing as he tried to untangle himself from her. She fell onto her stomach beside him and he yelped as his hand finally came free.

"What the hell Natasha!" he shouted, staring at his hand in shock. "Oh shit, I've dislocated my finger."

The moment she heard his voice she froze, remembering where she was. For a second she just lay in the mud and tried to quieten the voice in her mind that was screaming "_kill him_!" This was Clint, her best friend, she reminded herself, not an enemy.

Confident that she had diminished all thoughts on hurting Clint, Natasha wiped mud off of her mouth and tried to get her breath back. She turned her head to the side and sought out his injured finger, wincing when she saw the angle it was sticking out on. "_Ne delay etogo_!" she hissed, pushing herself up to sit on her knees.

Clint glared at her. "Well sorry, I didn't know you were gonna slam me into the ground. I was trying to warm you up."

"You put your arm around my waist."

"Yea, to warm you up."

Natasha moved closer to him and gingerly took his hand in her own. She examined the bent finger and let out a deep breath. "We'll have to pop it back in."

"What?" Clint cried, jerking his hand back. "No! No way. Not happening."

"Stop being a baby and let me fix it" Natasha snapped, taking hold of his wrist. Clint opened his mouth to protest but was cut off as Natasha suddenly closed her hand around his finger and roughly bent it back into place.

There was a distinct _popping _noise, barely heard over the sound of the rain. Clint's mouth was still open and he sat still, watching as Natasha examined her work.

"When we get back to your house we can tape it" she said, letting his wrist drop. "I don't think anything's broken."

"Ow" Clint finally managed. "That hurt. Thanks for the warning."

He bent his finger back and forth, brow furrowed, making sure it still worked. Then he turned to Natasha, who was now standing, and smiled. "Mum's not gonna let you in the house."

Natasha glanced down at her front, which was covered in mud, and cursed. She could feel it on her face, could tell that it would be in her hair, and knew beyond doubt that her jeans would barely make it out of this mess alive.

With a sigh she held out her hand to pull Clint to his feet. "Yea, well, she won't let you in either."

"Not my fault you decided to attack me" Clint grumbled.

"Technically it is your fault" she retorted. "You were the one to grab me."

"To keep you warm. Or be friendly. Maybe both."

Natasha spotted Clint's house and chose to ignore his comment. She wasn't sure what had overcome her when Clint had grabbed her; just that everything had fallen away around her until all she was focused on had been his arm around her, and all that had mattered was taking him down.

The realisation of this hit her like a tonne of bricks. She stopped walking, struggling to draw in a breath as she began to panic. She bent over and rested her hands on her knees, taking deep, deliberate breaths to try and regain control of her body.

Clint watched Natasha hesitantly from a distance as she stopped and stared off into the rain. He didn't fully understand what had happened mere minutes ago, but he could tell that it was beginning to have an effect on her. As she bent over he jogged forward, worried that she was also injured from the fall, and gently touched her shoulder. "Nat..."

"Don't touch me!" she hissed, flinching away from him. Her eyes were wide and confused, a look that he had never seen on her before. Clint immediately held both hands up where she could see them and took a step back from her, giving her space.

Clint felt sick watching Natasha struggle and being helpless to do anything for her; if she didn't want him there, he wasn't going to push her. He was still in shock that she had turned on him so quickly and from such a simple gesture. He couldn't even begin to imagine what had been going through her mind and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.

"_Ty v poryadke?_" he asked gently, heart hammering.

Natasha seemed to deflate before his eyes. He ran forward as her knees hit the ground and brought both hands out to grip her shoulders before she could fall any further.

"I'm sorry" she whispered brokenly, gripping his shirt in her hands. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I... I don't know what happened..."

"It's fine Nat" Clint reassured her. "I'm a big boy. No harm done."

Natasha let out a shaky breath and nodded. "I should teach you how to fight back."

"Will you?" Clint asked, eyes alight with enthusiasm. "I think you should. Then you won't be able to bash me up all the time."

Natasha's lips quirked up the slightest bit. "I will still bash you up."

Clint laughed and let her go so she could stand up. Natasha wiped her hands over her jeans to try and wash some of the mud off before she went inside, huffing in irritation and pushing all thoughts of her previous breakdown aside.

Clint started off down his driveway without her, backpack swinging from one arm as the rain finally began to thin out. He'd just rounded the corner to walk up the backdoor steps when he saw something parked in the shed out of the corner of his eye. He turned, eyes scanning the small building, until he realised exactly what he had seen: an old red pickup truck parked under cover and out of the rain.

His father's car. _His_ _father's car_.

Clint backed away from his house as terror swirled inside of him. His back collided with something and he heard Natasha ask him what was wrong, but he couldn't find the words to tell her to run. Instead he began to rapidly tap his thumb against the side of his forehead, signing _father, father, father _over and over.

Natasha had never met Clint's father. She had stayed numerous times in the two years he had known her, but it always managed to fall on a time when Clint's father was away. Natasha actually got along with Barney – the two fought like they were brother and sister – and Clint's mother absolutely adored her. But Clint couldn't know how his father would treat Natasha, and he didn't want to find out any time soon.

Comprehension dawned on Natasha's face. She grabbed his arm and was about to take off when the backdoor swung open and Clint's mother appeared, wiping her hands on an apron tied around her waist.

"Clint, what are you doing? Come in and dry off, you're both soaking."

Clint gulped and looked up, meeting his mother's gaze steadily. "Is dad home?"

Edith noticed Natasha over Clint's shoulder and held her arm out to her, walking out into the light drizzle. "Natasha dear, give me your bag. Come in and warm up."

Natasha handed over her bag and gave Clint a small shove in the back when his mother had turned away. Clint walked slowly up the steps and dumped his backpack in the sink, kicking his shoes off into a corner and hanging his raincoat up.

Edith made a noise of disapproval as she opened Natasha's bag and pulled out a dripping wet shirt. "You're clothes won't dry in time for you to get changed tonight" she commented. "You'll have to borrow something of mine or Clint's to sleep in.'

"Thank you Mrs. Barton" Natasha said sincerely as she too hung up her raincoat.

"Oh please, it's Edith dear, you know that. And don't worry about it."

Edith pulled all of the clothes Natasha had packed for her sleepover out of her bag and shoved them into the washing machine. "Put your muddy clothes in here once you've changed" she told Clint. "I'll do a load after dinner."

Clint led Natasha down the hall and to his bedroom at the end of the house. His room was higher than all of the others, though not high enough to be considered a second storey, and it had a few carpeted stairs that led to his door.

Natasha immediately went to the en-suite that had been built so that he didn't have to walk to the other end of the house to use the bathroom and called over her shoulder, "I dibs first shower."

Clint groaned and began searching for a clean pair of clothes. "I wish I never taught you that word."

The sound of the water turning on drowned out Natasha's laughter. Clint found a pair of shorts with a drawstring and an old shirt that would have to do for Natasha to sleep in and dropped them by the en-suite door with a pair of socks.

Her shower was short and after she had changed into the clothes Clint had left she came back into the bedroom, running his comb through her hair. "I wasn't even that long so you can't complain" she said, cutting him off before he could say anything.

Clint rolled his eyes and took his own clothes into the en-suite. "Don't be long!" Natasha shouted from his room.

Clint stripped quickly and stepped under the warm water, gratefully letting it wash the mud off of his skin. His toes ached from the sudden change in temperature and as the water worked the kinks out of his muscles he considered just sitting down and sleeping under the spray so that he didn't have to worry about facing his father with Natasha there.

Clint sighed and leant against the shower wall heavily. With Natasha's slight breakdown and now his father coming home, he felt that he'd dealt with enough drama to last him a lifetime. He just hoped that his father wouldn't drink and try anything with Natasha. The thought of her getting hurt because of him made him feel nauseas.

Clint shut off the shower and stepped out, quickly changing before his body could get too cold again. Natasha was still trying to work the comb through the knots in her hair when he came out, arms laden with their dirty clothes.

"Need a hand?" she asked, wincing as she tugged on her hair.

"I was about to ask you the same thing" Clint said, pausing to watch her struggle. She gave up with the comb and stood to join him as he took the clothes back to the laundry.

Clint chucked the dirty clothes into the washing machine and started it the way Edith had shown him last year, hoping he didn't have to do anything extra to help get the mud out. Natasha found her hairbrush and followed Clint cautiously to the kitchen.

He breathed a sigh of relief when they didn't encounter his father. He didn't know how long it had been since Natasha and himself had arrived home, but there had yet to be any sign of his father.

"Do you two want a snack?" Edith asked, walking over to look in the cupboard. "I brought donuts today."

"Yea" Clint answered offhandedly, twirling a pen between his fingers.

"Yes please" Natasha said politely. Her hair was already beginning to curl slightly at the ends as it dried and Clint had to fight the urge to reach over and tug it. As if sensing what he was thinking, Natasha glared at him and signed, _don't you dare_.

Clint cracked a smile and greedily snatched a chocolate donut from the box Edith set down between them. He took a bite and stuck his tongue out at Natasha, making her scowl, and was about to finish chewing when the front door opened and Barney entered, followed closely by Harold Barton.

The donut turned to cardboard in Clint's mouth as he made eye contact with his father. He tried desperately to swallow his mouthful but found it almost impossible; it was as though his throat had closed and his stomach had been twisted around the wrong way.

Natasha kicked his shin discreetly and he managed to tear his eyes away to meet her gaze. The reassurance he found there was enough to help him swallow and get his emotions somewhat under control.

"Clint!" Harold cried as he hung his coat by the door. Barney snagged a donut and tussled Natasha's hair as he passed, smirking at the look of indignation that crossed her features briefly. "How was school, son?"

Clint forced himself to smile. "Great. We got wet coming home."

"They were drenched!" Edith added. "Left puddles all through the laundry."

"We? They?" Harold asked, and then he finally noticed Natasha.

Clint held his breath as she smiled sweetly at him, looking for the entire world like an innocent little girl and not someone who could easily drop a man double her size.

"Oh" Harold said. "Who's this?"

"This is Natasha, dad" Clint told him nervously. "You know..."

"Clint's friend who moved from Russia" Edith elaborated. "She lives down the road, in the Rosenthal's old house."

"Oh yes, yes" Harold exclaimed. He held his hand out for Natasha to shake and smiled warmly at her. "Nice to finally meet you Natasha."

"And you too Mr Barton" she replied.

Howard made his way around the counter and kissed Edith's cheek. "This smells good" he praised, and using his momentary distraction to his full advantage, Clint grabbed the box of donuts and quickly left the kitchen, knowing Natasha would follow.

Once they were safely in his room she growled and kicked his chest of drawers. "God, I could've just punched him in the face."

"Nat" Clint warned, hopping onto his bed and resting the donuts on his stomach as he laid back. "Don't. I don't want to deal with this right now."

"He shook my hand and smiled like he never even hurt you" she hissed. "I can't just _pretend _like I am okay with that."

"Nat" Clint said more forcefully. "Seriously. Stop."

Natasha climbed onto the bed next to him and sat precariously on the edge, watching him closely. "He hurts you Clint. And then he waltzes in and asks how your day was and shakes my hand and _smiles_, and he hurts you Clint. I am not okay with that."

"Natasha, he's my dad" Clint said lowly, trying to keep his anger in check. "I don't care if you're pissed off right now. He's my dad and if he gets taken away then me and Barney get taken away. Mum can't afford us on her own."

Natasha breathed out deeply and managed to lie down so her head was resting on Clint's shoulder. He passed her a donut and heard rather than saw her take a bite. "I have to go back to Russia these holidays" she whispered eventually.

Clint turned his head and coped a mouthful of red hair. He gently reached up and moved it out of the way so that he could answer her. "What for?"

"Training" she said. "It's always the same thing."

Clint considered his next question carefully, taking another bite of his donut and lying back flat so he was facing the roof. "Hey Nat?"

"Hmm, yea?"

The words tasted like acid coming out of his mouth. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

Natasha closed her eyes and breathed out a tiny little breath. Her hand clenched slightly around the sheet. "I really wish you hadn't asked that, Clint."

* * *

**Translations (sorry for any inaccuracy!): **

**Mudak= Asshole.**

**Ne delay etogo= Don't do that.**

**Ty v poryadke= Are you okay?**


	5. Chapter 4

**This chapter's basically all Clint and is the last one that should mess the timeline up. In this chapter, Clint is 14 and Natasha is 13. It takes place in September (which I think is the start of the new school year in America, I don't know because I'm from Australia. If it's not please let me know!) So from now on, the chapters will only skip months and not full years.**

**Warnings: child abuse.**

**I hope you enjoy and please review x**

* * *

Clint took a deep breath and loosed an arrow on his exhale, watching it imbed itself perfectly in the centre of the target. He shifted his weight to his left leg and raised the other one into the air, balancing precariously on the tree stump. He nocked another arrow and tried to centre himself before drawing back and letting go of the bowstring.

The arrow landed exactly beside the first, and Clint couldn't help but grin and cheer in triumph. He'd been practising all summer and it was beginning to show; he could shoot with both hands now and didn't need to be completely grounded to do so.

There was still one manoeuvre that he had yet to be able to pull off, though, and it was driving him insane.

Clint decided to try it one more time before the sun went down. He turned around on the stump so his back was facing the target and nocked an arrow, kneeling down and pointing the arrow towards the ground. He spun quickly, standing at the same time, and released the arrow half-way through the turn.

The arrow hit the target too far right and Clint cursed, dropping his bow to the ground. His shoulders and back ached from practising for hours, and he was frustrated that he still couldn't hit the bullseye whilst moving.

He jumped off the stump and sat on the grass with his head in his hands, rubbing at his temples. He had blisters on his fingers and angry red marks up his arms, and he just felt like absolute shit. The arrow that didn't hit the bullseye sat directly in his line of sight, mocking him.

He picked up on the sound of footfalls but didn't raise his head. He knew who it was without needing to look and it wasn't the person he wanted to see right now.

"You're pretty good at that" Barney said from behind him.

Clint shrugged and dug his foot into the ground. Barney took a seat on the stump and carefully picked up Clint's bow.

"I didn't think you'd keep doing this."

"Yea."

"I thought it was just a stupid hobby."

"Mmm."

Barney sighed. "When's Natasha getting back?"

Clint lifted his head and snatched his bow back off of Barney. "Dunno. Haven't heard from her."

Natasha had been going back to Russia every summer holidays since she was eleven, and this year wasn't any different. Except Ivan had taken her over there a month early this time and Clint hadn't heard from her since. He knew she had training, and knew that friendships weren't encouraged in the Red Room, but he had expected her to be back by now.

School started tomorrow, and he was beginning to get worried.

"It was stupid for her uncle to take her out during the last term" Barney commented. "But I guess she needs to visit her family and stuff..."

Barney was being nicer than usual. Clint ran a hand over his bow and tried to think of what his older brother might need from him. As if reading his thoughts, Barney cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

"Look, Clint, I know dad doesn't pay you to work in the shop, but mum gives you pocket money, and..."

"Jeez Barney" Clint cried and stood, facing his brother. His hand clenched around his bow and he fought to control his sudden anger. "Don't tell me you're asking for money."

"If I wasn't desperate, I wouldn't ask" Barney said. "C'mon, please. I only need a hundred."

"Only one hundred! What the hell do you need one hundred dollars for?"

Barney stood and drew himself up to his full height, towering over Clint. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at him. "That's none of your business."

"It is too" Clint countered, shaking his head. "It's my money you're asking for. I have a right to know what it's being used for."

"If you don't give it to me I'll tell mum that Natasha sneaks through your window most nights" Barney threatened. "And that she sleeps in your bed."

Clint scoffed. "Mum knows, idiot. Natasha's been doing it for years now. She struggles to sleep on her own."

That was only half true, but Clint figured Barney didn't need to know that. Natasha _did _find it hard to sleep by herself, but she mainly did it for protection; Ivan couldn't hurt her if she was in somebody else's bed. She'd started doing it two years ago, in the weeks following the first time she'd met Clint's father, and it had become so normal that Clint didn't question it.

Edith had been sceptical to begin with and had given Clint 'The Talk' several times, even though he'd assured her that their relationship would never go further than a friendship. The thought of kissing Natasha grossed him out, and he was pretty sure that she'd knock him out if he tried anyway.

Barney's glare darkened as a cruel smile twisted his features. "I'll tell dad then."

Clint knew he'd lost the fight now. If his dad ever found out that a girl was sleeping in his bed – as innocent as it was – Clint would probably never see Natasha again. He couldn't risk that happening.

Reluctantly he sighed and nodded. "Whatever. You're an asshole."

Barney smirked and began to walk back towards the house. "I expect to see it by tonight, at the latest."

Clint stuck his finger up at his brother's retreating figure and went over to collect his arrows and dismantle the target. The last thing he needed was for some hunter to come through and steal his stuff.

He fixed his quiver into a more comfortable position over his shoulder and lifted the target up under one arm, carrying his bow in his free hand. The weight of the target and his bow did nothing to ease the ache in his back and arms, and he wished he had ridden his bike out here instead of walking.

It was a quiet afternoon, thought it wasn't like the road he was on got very busy anyway. There were three houses along this entire stretch of road; his house, Natasha's house and an abandoned farmhouse that sat between the two. Clint liked having a big backyard and a lot of space to be loud in, but it had its downsides as well. Natasha was technically his next door neighbour, and her house was a ten minute walk away.

It also meant that no one could hear him yell and scream when his father beat him.

Clint decided to take the long way home and bypass Natasha's house to see if there was any sign of life there. He had to climb more fences this way, which meant more pain for his tired body, but he was sure he'd seen a car out the front only yesterday.

As he got closer he could definitely see the same car still parked on the front lawn. The whole thing was black, even the windows, and there were no number plates. This didn't come as a surprise to him, not with Ivan and the business he was running back in Russia.

Clint paused by the driveway as he heard shouting coming from inside the house. He could make out Ivan's deep, raspy voice yelling in Russian, and then another, higher-pitched male voice yelling back. From what Natasha had taught him of Russian so far, he understood a few of the words being said, and knew that this wasn't an argument he would want to be involved in.

Ivan was angry about the quality of a drug that the other man had supplied him with. At least, Clint thought he was talking about drugs; he couldn't pinpoint the use of the word, but the entire conversation made more sense if it was drugs they were fighting over.

He heard Natasha's voice rise above the others and frowned in confusion, not paying attention to what she was saying. She was home? He thought that she would have visited by now, or at least called him. It was sort of tradition that when she returned from Russia they'd catch up and do something stupid before school went back.

The shouting had died down since Natasha had entered the conversation. The urge to go and knock on her front door was almost too much to bear, so Clint quickly continued on before he could be tempted. Angry Russian spies and drugs didn't seem like the most pleasant combination right now. If Natasha wanted to see him, she would have done so by now.

Something was obviously going on, and that was probably what was preventing her from visiting. That was okay with Clint; he was patient, and he'd see her at school the next day anyway.

He just hoped that she was alright.

* * *

Clint stared stubbornly at his dinner plate and pushed his peas into his mashed potatoes before taking a huge bite.

At the head of the table, his father sat completely still, watching him chew in stony silence. Edith's hands were shaking as she cut her steak, though Clint pretended not to notice, and Barney was shovelling food into his mouth so fast Clint was surprised he hadn't choked yet.

Clint felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest as Barney scraped his plate clean and pushed his chair away from the table.

"That was great mum, thanks" he said as went to the sink to wash his dishes.

"Leave it" Harold demanded, never averting his gaze from his youngest son. "Clinton can wash the dishes tonight."

Barney shrugged and left his plate in the soapy water before leaving the kitchen. His bedroom door slammed behind him and then the house descended into silence once more.

Clint forced himself to continue eating, even though he felt full. By taking the long way home he'd been late for dinner, and Edith had asked that everyone wait to eat with him. Harold hadn't been too happy with her suggestion and was already on his fourth beer. Clint knew that if he didn't eat everything on his plate, his punishment would be a lot worse.

Edith finished and stood, taking her husband's empty plate from in front of him to place in the sink. Clint saw her hesitate out of the corner of his eye before she quickly left, not wanting to tempt herself to clean up after everyone. It was small act of kindness on her behalf, and Clint would have to try and remember to thank her for it.

He swallowed his last mouthful, took a deep breath, and stood with his own plate. He kept his gaze downcast as he passed by Harold's chair and set to work washing the dishes. The water was hot, and his fingers itched to turn on the cold tap for a bit, but he refrained. There was no need to make his father angrier than he already was.

Harold was still sitting at the table when Clint finished almost fifteen minutes later. He didn't say anything as Clint walked out and didn't call him back when he made it to his bedroom. His lack of response left a feeling of dread in Clint's stomach that he couldn't shake no matter how long he lay on his bed and practised breathing.

Once he thought he had enough control over himself he glanced over at his window and frowned. He was so used to seeing Natasha's red head bop up over the windowsill that he could picture her there easily, gracefully swinging into his room and landing noiselessly on his floor. It had been two, nearly three months, since her last visit and Clint had never felt so lonely during that time.

He didn't have other friends to visit or talk to. Most of them had ditched him when he was younger. Most of them had ditched him because of Natasha. All of them didn't think it was 'cool' to be friends with a kid who had hearing aids, so they had stopped playing with him on the playground and sitting next to him in class. It had happened so quickly that Clint didn't realise it at first.

He didn't know if he wanted more friends or just somebody to keep him company when Natasha was away. It was probably selfish to only have a friend to replace his best friend when she was gone, but he didn't really care for that. He just wanted somebody to talk to.

Clint groaned and rolled onto his stomach. The first day of school was always the worst, and he really wasn't looking forward to the rest of the year. He had done well last year in everything except for English; even Natasha, who was from a completely different country and spoke Russian as her first language, had done better than him. She had promised to help him if he helped her with maths, so they'd shook on it and organised a study night.

It was still early, but Clint knew he'd need a good night's rest before school. He got up and quietly padded out to the lounge to say goodnight to his mother. He had no idea where his dad was and didn't care to find out, so he left after speaking with his mum for a little longer.

He brushed his teeth as though on autopilot, his eyes already drooping from the exhaustion that came with practising archery all day. Once he was in bed and sure that nothing else needed to be done, he took his aids out and paused to adjust as the sounds of the world fell away from him.

It was a little unsettling to lose a sense, especially one as important as hearing. Clint rolled onto his side and watched his sheets crinkle underneath him; when he sneezed a moment later, the silence of it seemed to echo strangely in his brain.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

* * *

The first blow knocked the breath out of him.

Clint rolled into a tight ball, arms going around to protect his stomach against the sudden onslaught of punches. He couldn't hear, he couldn't see in the dark, and his body was confused as pain erupted along his spine. He lashed out wildly and fell off the bed in a tangle of sheets.

A light was flicked on. As he pushed himself out of the mess of blankets, he could see his mother in the doorway, her mouth moving too fast for him to read her lips. He stared, wide-eyed, and then felt a tug on his arm that sent him sliding across the ground.

Something hard hit the back of his head and he saw stars, momentarily slumping forward. He was yanked up by his shirt almost immediately after receiving the blow and his stomach churned as his brain tried to catch up to his body.

Blinking through the haze, he barely had time to duck his father's wayward punch. He fell to his hands and knees and tried to scramble away, but Harold managed to grab his ankle and pull him back again. Clint fell to his stomach and knocked his chin on the ground, tasting blood as his teeth sank into his cheek.

Harold rolled him over and wrapped a large hand around his neck, pinning him down. He was screaming and shaking in pure rage as Clint didn't respond to whatever he was saying, not taking notice of the fact that he didn't have his aids in.

Clint could see his mother's feet on the other side of the bed, still standing near the doorway. He tried to tell his father that he couldn't hear him, or understand what he was saying, but it was no use; even if his speech wasn't affected by not wearing the aids, Harold wouldn't have paid him any attention.

Clint tried to push his father's large frame off of him, bringing his knees up to try and kick him. He wasn't strong enough, and the hand around his neck tightened. Harold leant back suddenly, and before Clint could make his move to escape he brought his fist down upon Clint's face, over and over until he couldn't feel anything except blinding hot pain.

His vision became tinted with red and he felt like he was falling, down and down and down, until his world turned to black.

* * *

Clint awoke slowly, as though he was still drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. He squinted at the sun streaming through his window and then turned his stiff neck to the clock beside his bed. It was lunch time, he realised with a start, but could do nothing more than groan and slump against his pillows in defeat.

It was way too late to go to school now, and though he could barely remember the previous night, he knew he wasn't in the best condition to be attending class anyway.

His eyes landed on his aids and with an over exaggerated sigh he reached out to take them, gingerly inserting them back into his ear. The right side of his body ached every time he moved, but he had to get up and see what the damage was.

When his ears had readjusted to being able to hear again, he slowly swung his legs over the side of his bed and sucked in a sharp breath as white hot pain shot up his spine. He took a minute to compose himself before pushing up and standing fully.

His stomach churned and his head pounded. He didn't hesitate, though, just walked as quickly as possible to the bathroom so that he could lean against the sink.

His face was bruised, especially around his right eye, and his lip was split. He lifted his shirt up to reveal deep purple and black bruises across his sternum and ribs, noticing one on his right side shaped like a boot. His neck and throat looked normal, which shocked him; he clearly remembered his father trying to strangle him.

Clint stood still for a moment, watching his reflection in the mirror. The image of himself bruised and bloody was one he was too familiar with, but it never got any easier to look at. He turned the tap on and splashed some water over his face gently, wiping away the crusted blood on his lip.

When he was done he made the slow journey back to his bed, stopping only to bend painfully and retrieve his laptop from the backpack he had arranged with school supplies the day before. Clint knew that the best thing he could do for his body would be to rest, so he settled back under his blankets and started a movie.

Though it was under the worst circumstances, he really wasn't complaining that he had missed school.

* * *

Clint only moved when his bedroom door opened later that night, and even then it was only a slight turn of his head to see who had entered.

Edith stood with a paper bag in one hand and her car keys in the other. She took in the sight of Clint and he noticed that her hand clenched tighter around the bag the longer she looked at him. He didn't say anything, remembering her feet standing in the doorway when he was on the ground, trying to fight off his father.

She hurried across his room and placed the paper bag on his bedside table. As she stepped back, her jacket sleeve rode up to reveal bruises around her wrists. She caught him staring and yanked her sleeves back down, taking several steps back.

Edith opened her mouth to speak and then seemed to second guess herself and instead left, closing the door behind her. Clint stared at the door for a long time with a hollow feeling in his chest.

He had never felt so broken in his entire life.

* * *

Clint spent most of the next day at school searching for Natasha. He had stolen some of Edith's makeup and had managed to cover the bruises on his face easily, and his body didn't hurt as much anymore. He knew it would take a long time to heal fully, but he had felt well enough to go to school when he had woken up, and was still feeling good right up until lunch.

He took his tray of food to the usual table he sat at with Natasha. He had visited her locker between each class, and had looked for her in every place he knew she frequented, but had so far had no luck.

He wasn't really paying attention to what he was putting into his mouth as he scanned the crowd of students. He had seen nearly all of his old friends at some stage during the day – not that he cared, he just thought they were idiots – and still there was no sign of Natasha.

He was sure that he'd heard her voice just the other day. He was beginning to wish that he'd actually worked up the nerve to knock on her door when he noticed in his peripheral vision a head of flaming red hair weaving through the crowd.

Natasha was walking right towards him, but she didn't seem to have noticed him yet. Clint smiled and relaxed at the sight of her familiar face; _finally_, he could tell her about his father and his boring holidays.

He was still smiling when she walked straight past him. And then he was frowning and trying to turn in his chair to watch her sit at a table in the back corner by herself. She pulled something off her tray and raised it, blocking her face.

She was reading. She was reading instead of eating. She was reading instead of eating and sitting at a table that wasn't _their_ table.

Clint stood, grabbed his tray, and made his way over to her, trying to figure out what had just happened. He pulled out the only other chair at her table and sat heavily, wincing as his ribs protested against the short walk.

Natasha didn't look up. She didn't even acknowledge his presence, and he felt apprehension begin to creep up on him. What was going on?

"Hey Nat" he said casually, leaning back in his chair. "Didn't you see me back there?"

She didn't answer him. He watched her wrist move as she turned the page of her book and resisted the urge to reach over and knock her. Something was wrong.

"Natasha, what's wrong?" he asked. "Why are you ignoring me?"

Natasha lowered the book and stared at him. His stomach dropped as he met her gaze. Her eyes were cold and blank, crinkled slightly at the corners in what he guessed was mock confusion. The girl staring back at him was wearing Natasha's face, but it wasn't Natasha.

"I'm sorry" she said softly, as if talking to a small child. "You must have confused me for somebody else."

"No" Clint said, hating how desperate he sounded. "No. Quit messing with me Nat. I've had a shit week."

"I'm sorry" she began to repeat, but Clint could barely hear her over the pounding in his head. "Look, I don't really –"

"Natasha, this isn't funny" he said lowly, watching her lips press into a thin line. "Stop it. The jokes old."

"The only one joking here is you" she snapped as she gathered up her tray and book. "Now, please excuse me."

Clint stood too and blocked her path, reaching out to grab both of her shoulders. The longer he stared at her, the sicker he felt.

"Let me go" she growled, glaring at him.

"No, I won't until you stop" Clint responded with more confidence than he had. "Natasha, seriously. I haven't seen you in months and you decide to act like the Ice Queen the first time we talk again? What the hell's going on?"

Natasha's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as she roughly shook his hands off of her. "You need help" she said as she pushed past him. "I don't know what you are talking about, but I have never met you before."

Clint's heart dropped and his blood ran cold as her words began to sink in. The vacant look in her eyes when he'd sat with her, the hostility towards him, it was all making sense. She didn't remember him.

She didn't know who he was.

"Natasha" he called out softly, his breathing harsh as he watched her stop and pause. "It's me. C'mon..."

Natasha looked at him as though he wasn't really there and shook her head. "I don't know you. You've confused me with somebody else. I'm sorry, but I really _do not know who you are_."

She turned and left, her hair swinging behind her, and Clint had to sit down before he passed out. She wasn't joking. He knew Natasha, and he knew when she was messing around with him.

But this was real. This was Natasha really not knowing him. There was absolutely no recognition towards him. He closed his eyes and fought back his nausea as her words replayed over and over in his mind.

_I have never met you before... I don't know you... I'm sorry..._

Clint swallowed thickly and opened his eyes again. He had to get out of here. He stood and made his way out of the cafeteria as quickly as possible, stopping only when the bell rang.

He was at school. He couldn't go anywhere.

Clint reached into his pocket and fished out his timetable to find out what he had next. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely unfold the paper, and he didn't try to stop it as it fell to the ground after he had read it.

He had English next. And he had no idea what he was going to do.


	6. Chapter 5

**This chapter is set on the same day as the last one. It was a bit rushed and not exactly what I had in mind but I really needed to get it out of the way. School has unfortunately started once more so updates will be slower. I'll try and do a chapter a week but I can't promise anything. **

**I hope you enjoy and please review x**

* * *

The sounds of chairs scraping across linoleum surrounded Clint from all sides as the classroom filled with students. He kept his head down and continued to sketch around the edges of his workbook, waiting for Natasha to arrive.

In the five minutes it had taken him to get to the English room from lunch he had managed to convince himself that he was being ridiculous; Natasha would never completely forget him, so she must be playing a stupid joke on him to make up for not coming around when she got back from Russia. It wasn't her best idea, but he knew that watching her laugh herself breathless over his anxiety would make up for it.

He noticed her the minute she walked in without even looking up. He spent so much time with her that he could easily pick up on her presence in a room without actually needing to lay his eyes on her. Her feet came into view near his desk and his heart fluttered pathetically as she paused by the chair beside him.

He waited for the words to tumble out of her mouth in a rush. _Sorry Clint, I was just joking. You should've seen your face though!_

He lifted his head an inch, searching her face for the smile he knew she couldn't hide forever. Calculative green eyes bore down on him, and he felt himself tensing under her gaze. Natasha _never _looked at him like that.

She pulled out the chair beside him and sat stiffly, her hair over one shoulder and covering her face. Though he knew that she didn't exactly have any other options, it was somewhat of a comfort to see her sit next to him. It was familiar and made the pain in his chest lessen.

"You gonna help me keep up like you promised?" he murmured to her as the teacher entered the room.

He could almost feel the tension radiating off of her body as she gripped her pen tighter in her hand. She could feel his eyes on her but didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her confusion as she ignored him; whoever he was, she knew that she hadn't promised him anything at all.

"Clint Barton?" the teacher asked, eyes scanning the room as he called the role.

"Yep" Clint replied, keeping his eyes on Natasha. Her fingers slackened slightly on the pen at the sound of his name. She didn't understand what the tugging at the back of her brain was trying to tell her. She was certain that she had never met him before, but now his name was starting to stir something in her mind that she couldn't quite place. There was a gaping black hole that she couldn't work around and it was starting to drive her crazy.

"Natasha Romanoff?"

Clint frowned when Natasha didn't even react to her name being called. Either she hadn't heard or she was completely ignoring everybody now and not just him. Mr Belden sat a little straighter in his chair and looked out over his class; Natasha had been his best student last year and always answered him when she was addressed.

"Natasha Romanoff?" he repeated just as his eyes found her flaming red hair in her usual seat at the back. She didn't look up, and beside her Clint glanced nervously to the front. The whole class was silent and people were beginning to stare.

Mr Belden glanced back down at his list of students and found Natasha's name. Written in brackets beside it was another name, a name he had been advised not to call his student, but something was very obviously wrong at the moment. Natasha was seemingly oblivious to everything that was happening around her, and kept staring at her paper intently.

Mr Belden took a deep breath and tried the name he had never had to use before. "Natalia Roma –?"

Mr Belden didn't have time to finish his sentence. Natasha's head snapped up so fast that Clint jumped in surprise and narrowly missed knocking his chin on her shoulder. Her cold gaze lingered on her teacher long enough for him to begin to feel uncomfortable before she finally uttered, "Present."

Clint let out a shaky breath and tried to figure out what was happening. Natasha absolutely _hated _being called Natalia, and now she was responding to it quicker than he had ever expected. He was starting to think that something deeper than he originally thought was going on.

It also confirmed his previous fears: if Natasha didn't remember which name she preferred, then there was no way in hell she would remember him.

He felt the last of his hope dwindle away into nothing as he finally admitted to himself that this wasn't a joke.

This was real.

* * *

Clint knew he shouldn't be following Natasha – or whoever she was – out of school and down the street when she turned left instead of right, but the temptation was too strong. She had slung a gym bag over one shoulder and had left school so quickly that Clint had barely had time to catch up to her.

Now he walked on the other side of the road, pretending to be kicking a stone in front of him but actually keeping an eye on her. She was walking quickly and simultaneously tying her hair up into a tight bun. She pinned the loose strands down until it was perfect and completely un-Natasha like; she never tied her hair so tightly because it gave her a headache after a while.

She stopped at the door of an old building that was covered in foreclosure notices and looked over her shoulder as though to make sure she wasn't being watched, before bringing her fist down on the door in a precise knock. To Clint's surprise the door opened and Natasha was ushered inside. All Clint could see of the other person was a thick arm and the sleeve of an expensive looking suit, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he realised that it couldn't possibly be Ivan. Ivan had tattoos on his wrists, and always wore chunky rings on his fingers.

Clint crossed the road and stood in front of the closed door, trying to hear if anything was being said. He managed to pick up on what sounded like opera music, but he couldn't be sure that it didn't belong to the cafe around the corner. He pressed his palms against the door and pushed with all his might.

It didn't open, so he tried pulling, just in case. There was a horrible scraping sound and Clint immediately stepped away and ducked around the corner, holding his breath as he waited for somebody to come and yell at him. He stayed there for several minutes and when nothing happened he decided he needed to find a different way in.

As he scanned the alley he had run into he tried to get a hold of his whirlwind thoughts. All he knew was that Natasha had returned from Russia possibly three or four days ago, and that now, on the second day of school, she claimed to not know him. She wasn't just acting differently anymore; she was acting _suspiciously_. It was causing alarm bells to go off in his head.

Clint spotted a fire escape on the wall of the building and went over to further investigate it. The ladder didn't reach the ground and there was nothing in the alley that would give him a boost up to it. With a grimace Clint realised he would have to jump and try to grip the lowest rung if he even wanted a chance of climbing up to peer through the grimy window at the top of the ladder.

Stealing himself, he raised his arms above his head and jumped. The pain that racked his body had him bending over and wrapping his arms around his middle as swallowed the cry that tried to work its way up his throat. He felt like his whole torso was burning and for a moment he had to concentrate on breathing so as not to pass out. He had momentarily forgotten about his bruised body, though he was sure it would be hard to do that now.

When Clint was sure that he would be alright he gently straightened up. There was still a slight twinge in his right side but it was nothing he couldn't deal with; already his thoughts had drifted back to Natasha and what she could possibly be doing.

He took several steps back and stared up at the ladder. He _had _to get up there and there was only one way to do it. Before he could chicken out he ran forward, launched himself into the air, and felt his hands make contact with the metal bar. He curled his fingers involuntarily as the breath was knocked from his lungs, and then quickly began to climb up the ladder until he could rest his feet on one of the rungs.

Clint had never felt pain quite as intense as he did in that moment. He leant his head against the brick wall and tried to slow his breathing, squeezing his eyes shut and holding onto the bar tight. Every inch of his upper body pounded in absolute agony. The only thing that stopped him from giving up and going home was the sound of the opera music, which was louder now that he was higher in the air.

He began climbing slowly, taking his time and making sure to stop occasionally to let his body rest. When he reached the window he was glad to see that there were a few remaining slats of wood on the crumbling balcony that he would be able to sit on. He tested their strength by pressing small amounts of his weight onto the boards before swinging onto the ledge fully.

Clint wiped his sleeve over the glass and pressed his face up against the smooth window pane to get a better view. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dimly lit interior of the building and he soon made out two figures standing in the centre of the room.

Natasha's hair burned bright on top of her head as she spun around in tight circles, balancing on one leg and extending the other away from her body before snapping it back. Over and over she spun to the music, arms held out in front of her to balance herself. Clint had never seen Natasha dance before, and until ten seconds ago hadn't even known she could, though it came as no surprise to him. Natasha seemed to be able to do anything she was asked.

_Even kill somebody_, he reminded himself grimly.

There was a man standing to the side of her with a cane, and Clint could hear his voice call out, "one, two, three, four!" over the sound of the music. His voice was laced heavily with a Russian accent though his tone was rather high pitched. It took Clint longer than he would have liked for him to recognise the voice as the man who had been arguing with Ivan the previous day.

"One, two, three – no!" the man cried, banging his cane on the ground.

Natasha stopped spinning and stood still and straight, her chest rising and falling heavily with each breath she took. The man whacked his cane against the side of her leg and she quickly shifted her position, feet turned at impossible angles.

"That is how you should end a pirouette" the man told her, pointing at her new position. "It is not hard. You are making stupid mistakes."

"_Izvinite_ Sergei" she murmured, head bowed.

Sergei used the cane to stop the opera music coming from the stereo and regarded Natasha with anger showing clear on his face. "Sorry does not cut it in this business Natalia. Neither do sloppy feet."

Sergei began to move around her in a slow circle, eyes raking over her body in a way that made Clint shift uncomfortably. Finally, he glanced at her legs and shouted, "Arabesque!"

Natasha changed positions and slowly raised one leg out straight behind her, arms moving fluidly in the air. She held the position as Sergei observed her. His cane tapped against her trembling leg and Clint could see the amount of concentration on her face as she gritted her teeth and tried to steady herself.

Sergei turned his back on her and she fell gracefully into her previous pose with both feet planted firmly on the ground. "I will improve" she muttered, her voice echoing in the empty room.

Sergei raised an eyebrow. "Of course you will. Ivan wants you dancing _Coppélia_. There is an upcoming performance of _Swan Lake_ that I think you should audition for." Sergei tilted her chin up and grinned at her. "Your technique in _Giselle _last month pleased me. We will meet tomorrow to begin the choreography of _Swan Lake_, and I will speak to Ivan about _Coppélia_."

Natasha nodded and relaxed her body, stretching her neck from one side to the other. She crossed over to her gym bag and rummaged around inside of it whilst Sergei disappeared from Clint's line of sight with the stereo tucked under one arm. Natasha hastily pulled a large sweater and pair of leggings over her leotard, slipping her feet out of her ballet shoes as she followed after Sergei.

Clint scrambled away from the window and climbed back onto the fire escape, scaling down it quickly and running over to the entrance of the alleyway. He pressed himself against the brick wall and peered carefully around it. The black car that had been parked in front of Natasha's house yesterday was now sitting idly on the road by the entrance to the warehouse, and Clint watched as Sergei climbed stiffly into the backseat, slamming the door behind him. The car sped past so quickly that Clint didn't have time to even _try _to see who else was in the car; all he knew was that Natasha wasn't.

After he lost sight of the car he breathed out deeply and turned back to see where his best friend had gotten to if she wasn't in the car. Natasha was leaning against the door slowly unpicking her hair, letting the curls fall loosely around her shoulders. She jammed her feet into a pair of flats and began her walk home.

She passed by Clint without giving him a second glance, even though she would most likely know he was there. He watched her cross the road without looking and scowled; Natasha never cared about road safety, so at least one thing hadn't changed.

He waited until she was a safe distance away before he stepped out into the street and began the short walk over to his father's butchers shop. All he wanted was to go home and clear his head so he could try to figure out what was happening, but he wouldn't be home for hours yet. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that he had been gone for longer than he had thought, and he knew Barney wouldn't be happy at him for being so late to work.

Clint pushed the door open and crinkled his nose in disgust. The shop smelt bad, and it only seemed to get worse each time he came. Barney was behind the counter, butcher's knife in one hand whilst the other was holding a rack of ribs in place.

"Where the fuck were you?" Barney cried when he finally noticed Clint trying to sneak past. He let the knife hit the bench with a clatter as he turned to glare at his brother.

"I lost track of time" Clint mumbled, pulling on his apron. "I was with Natasha."

"What were the two of you doing that took over half an hour?" Barney asked suspiciously. "And why didn't she come back here? She usually does."

"I was watching her dance" Clint said. He picked up his own knife and set to work on a cut of beef that needed to be packaged.

Barney's brow furrowed in confusion as he watched Clint work. "Huh. She told me she didn't dance."

"What?" Clint said, looking up and pausing momentarily. "What do you mean?"

"We were watching baseball one day – I dunno where you were so don't ask – and we were joking around and she said she didn't do sport." Barney shrugged. "So I asked which sport she would do, if she could, and she told me she'd always wanted to dance, but she never had before."

Clint didn't answer as he thought over everything that was happening. He knew Natasha didn't dance, and now Barney was confirming that point. The only explanation was if she had picked it up in Russia when she was over there, though it still didn't explain how she had learnt to pull off moves like the ones she'd been doing in the old building. Natasha was good at a lot of things, but there was no way that she could have learnt those moves in the time she was in Russia.

"I suppose it was just beginner stuff then" Barney stated, picking up the lull in the conversation. "What does she dance?"

"Ballet" Clint answered automatically, preoccupied with his thoughts.

"That would've been boring. What do they do when they start ballet, just stand in front of a mirror and stretch or something, right?"

"Yea" Clint agreed half-heartedly. "Something like that."

"Well, if this becomes a regular thing you better let me know beforehand" Barney told him. "So I know where you are. Also, you forgot to give me that money the other night."

That got Clint's attention. His head snapped up to glare at his brother, who was now purposefully avoiding his gaze. "Well jeez Barney, it's not like I had a lot of time to organise it, what with dad being absolutely pissed at me."

"The amount will just rise the longer it takes you to give it to me" Barney said. "It's not my fault you now owe me three hundred."

"No!" Clint shouted, throwing his knife down. "No way. In case you've forgotten, dad doesn't pay me to be here. I don't have that kind of money."

"I don't make the rules" Barney said casually. "I just follow them."

"Fuck you" Clint growled, clenching his hands into fists. "I'm not giving you anything. Get it some other way."

Barney levelled him with a look that made the hair on the back of Clint's neck stand up. He estimated the amount of time it would take for him to grab the knife if his brother decided to jump him – eight seconds, plus extra time for the first slash at Barney – and held his breath as he waited.

Barney finally nodded and returned to splitting the rack of ribs. Clint frowned; there was no way Barney just gave up like that when he had been throwing threats around the other day because he was so desperate. It, like everything else that was happening to him today, just didn't make sense.

He tried not to dwell on it and managed to lock his thoughts away for later, instead concentrating on not cutting himself instead of the meat. By the time he had finished his first job Barney was already cleaning up the bench, wiping it down systematically with an old cloth.

"You can close up cause you were so late" he told Clint as he hung up his own apron and walked around to collect his bag and jacket. "No one's gonna come in anyway, so you might as well just pack up everything now if you want."

Barney left before Clint could answer, letting the door slam shut behind him. Clint hated closing his father's shop by himself and always got an uneasy feeling in his stomach when he had to go to the freezer for any reason. If it was possible, and there were no customers, he would leave as soon as he had finished and not a moment later.

Technically he still had half an hour before official closing time but the streets were dead and it was already getting dark outside. He had to sweep and clean the benches, as well as make sure everything was locked up and the money was counted for the night.

It was almost too tempting being around the money that the shop had earned during the day and more than once Clint had had to stop himself from stealing anything. His father would show him absolutely no mercy if he found out that Clint had been stealing, and that was something Clint never hoped to have to experience.

Cleaning the benches helped to relax him and he felt like he could breathe easier now with no distractions. He still hadn't figured out what was going on with Natasha and none of his possible scenarios made sense. Amnesia seemed a little too extreme but it was his best solution so far. Whatever was wrong with her, he hoped she would just snap out of it sooner rather than later.

After double checking everything he could think of that needed checking, he took the key off the hook under the counter, slung his backpack over his shoulder and left the shop, locking the door securely behind him. The sun was almost set and he was quickly running out of light to guide himself home, so he set a brisk pace for himself and tried not to let himself get distracted.

The last thing he needed was to get lost before he helped fix Natasha's memory.

* * *

Clint stared at his room in shock and let his backpack fall to the floor.

His drawers had been flung open and the contents strewn across his floor; books had been ripped and his holiday homework scrunched into round paper balls; his bed had been unmade and the mattress somehow carted outside his window; his toothbrush was in the toilet, and his curtains were hanging haphazardly from their railing.

He knew who had done it without even having to check if anything was missing. He felt stupid for even believing for a second that Barney would let the money situation drop, and now he undoubtedly didn't have a single dollar to his name. Barney wouldn't have left him anything.

Clint felt like ripping his hair out in frustration, but instead began the slow cleanup process, keeping his new homework safely in his bag as he tried to salvage whatever he could of the essay he had finished writing over summer break. It had been his final chance at passing English for last year, and Natasha had spent hours up with him in the early hours of the morning, correcting it and offering him advice on how to improve.

Most of it was ruined. He needed to hand it in by the end of the week but didn't know if he would be able to pull an acceptable enough grade without Natasha's help.

He stared at his bed frame for what felt like hours, trying to figure out what to do. He heard the front door slam and then his parent's voices drifted down the hall. He couldn't bring the mattress inside now, not with the two of them in the kitchen. It would be impossible for him to get it through the house without them noticing, and though it was Barney's fault, he would most likely be the one to get punished.

He wanted to run to Natasha's house and tell her about everything that had happened in his shit week. He wanted to show her the bruises his father had left and rant to her about how much of an ass Barney was. He wanted to fall asleep beside her feeling _safe_, wanted to wake up feeling the same way and wanted to let her distract him so that he couldn't even remember his broken family.

He wanted to hear her voice teasing him, threatening him, laughing at him. He wanted to feel her fingers ghost over his sore spots, wanted to feel her prod him awake, wanted to feel her sling an arm over his shoulders as they walked.

But most of all, he just wanted his best friend back.

* * *

******Translations (sorry for any inaccuracy!):**

**Izvinite= Sorry. **


	7. Chapter 6

**Sorry for not updating sooner, but school has definitely started and I've been swamped with homework. Hopefully, I can get another chapter up sooner rather than later! In this chapter, Natasha believes she is Natalia and so that is how I wrote her, using Natalia instead of Natasha. I hope this doesn't confuse anybody! It continues straight from the night of Natasha's ballet lesson. **

**Warnings: maybe child abuse. Also, Natasha is only a 13 year old girl, so what happens in this chapter is pretty big for someone of that age. **

**I hope you enjoy and please review x**

* * *

Natalia rolled onto her side and slipped her fingers under her pillow, brushing them over the handle of the small butterfly knife that rested there. She stared blankly at the bare wall and tried her best to ignore Ivan's drunken shouts that reached her from the lounge room.

Sergei's talk with him hadn't gone as smoothly as she had hoped, and now Ivan was under the impression that she was disobeying his direct order; this was untrue, because even if she wanted to dance _Coppélia_ her opinion would be ignored. Though the choreography for _Swan Lake _would require more time and effort than _Coppélia _would, Natalia was thrilled that Sergei had fought so hard to have her dance in the production.

Despite the excitement she felt towards dancing, a larger part of her was still confused and upset that Ivan had dragged her back to America. She wanted to stay in Russia and continue training with the other girls, but Ivan had insisted that she return with him. She thought it was pointless to live in America just so that she could study their customs when everybody else could do it back in Russia and didn't understand why it had to be _her_ that got dragged halfway across the world.

Ivan said that she was special. But right now, lying in her room with more questions than answers, she didn't feel special; she just felt used.

Ivan's voice abruptly cut off and Natalia sat up warily, eyeing the door. She had barely a second to register the sound of thundering footsteps before her bedroom door was flung open and Ivan stormed in, an unmarked bottle of alcohol in one hand. Natalia immediately stood, shifting into a loose fighting stance in preparation to defend herself.

Ivan's eyes eventually found her small form and when they did they narrowed into slits. "_Otvratitel'no_" he hissed, his spit flying out of his mouth and spraying over Natalia's face. She fought the urge to wipe it off and met his glare with her own.

"You _disgust _me" he slurred, shaking the bottle at her. "Stupid girl. No discipline. Gonna need ta teach you a lesson."

He lurched at her and she brought her hands up to block the blow she expected. Instead, she felt something wet hit the top of her head and drip down her cheeks. The alcohol stung the corners of her eyes and she fought to remain expressionless as Ivan's bark of insane laughter filled the room.

"You like that?" he sneered, waving the bottle at her. "Want more?"

Natalia stayed rooted to the spot as she watched him bring the bottle to his own mouth and take a huge swig of the contents. She could feel her heart beating faster and faster in her chest as the seconds dragged on into minutes and Ivan still did not leave.

His smile made her insides coil. He stepped forward, stopping when he was toe to toe with her, and brought one large hand up to caress the side of her face.

"You're pathetic. If we weren't training you then what would you be good for? Nothing. Nothing but a pretty face and maybe one day, a good fuck" he spat. His hand dipped lower until it was curled around her throat, and she tensed as his fingers squeezed tightly.

Before she could react Ivan forced her head back roughly and shoved the bottle into her mouth, tilting it back until a thick stream of the harsh liquid flooded her throat. Natalia choked and tried to move to the side to unblock her airways but Ivan held her tightly, his face now inches from hers.

"Stupid dirty bitch, drink it!" he roared, and Natalia struggled to swallow around his choke hold.

The alcohol, which she assumed was vodka and a mix of something a lot stronger, left a trail of fire in its wake. Her throat burned and her eyes watered as she tried to prevent herself from spluttering too much, and she could already begin to feel a horrible warmth spread through her limbs. Her breath was laboured and when Ivan finally let her go, it took all of her strength to keep herself upright.

Ivan held her in place with his gaze, clutching the now empty bottle in his left hand. There was a fair amount of the drink on the carpet, and Natalia's hair was stuck to her neck in annoying, long strands. Ivan tripped over his own feet when he moved towards her bedside table and brought the bottle down on the edge of it.

She flinched at the sound of the bottle smashing and licked her dry lips when she felt his presence behind her. Ivan pulled some of her hair away from her neck and held it out in his hand. She could feel the weight of it hanging in the air between them; it was holding her down, keeping her in place as she waited to see what he would do.

Something hit the ground. Ivan reached for another piece of hair, and then something hit the ground again, and it took Natalia's sluggish brain more time than usual to realise what he was doing.

"No!" she screamed, turning around in outrage and taking several clumsy steps away from him. Her eyes found the mess of red curls on the ground and her hands automatically moved up to feel around the back of her neck, where the hair was significantly shorter and jagged.

The broken piece of glass Ivan had been using to cut her hair with fell out of his hand and landed amidst the mess that had already been made. He watched her carefully for a moment and then made to move towards the door. "So stupid" he mumbled as he stumbled out, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Natalia waited until she was sure he had gone before sagging into herself, wrapping her arms around her middle as she carefully sank to the ground and crawled over to the hair that had been cut from her head. She held it limply in her hand, staring at it numbly as she tried to keep her vision steady.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there before she eventually managed to move her heavy limbs into the bathroom connected to her room. She felt dizzy and nauseas and all she really wanted to do was curl up on her bed and sleep; if it weren't for the taste in her mouth and the stickiness of her skin, she would do just that.

Though she couldn't exactly see which tap controlled which temperature of water, she tried to go by instinct and managed to fix the warmth so that it was rather hot but barely scalding. As she stripped, her shaky hands peeling her jeans off carefully, she noticed something discoloured staining the denim of her pants.

Natalia swiped her fingers over the patch and squinted, trying to decipher if what she was seeing was actually blood or something else entirely. There shouldn't be blood; she knew that, because she'd already had several operations in Russia to make sure that she wouldn't get her monthly cycle. It was a 'useless dilemma' according to Ivan and she'd been made to believe that there was no way that she could ever conceive a child.

The horrible truth was laid out in front of her. Now that she was partially naked she could feel everything over the buzz of the alcohol and there was an unusual feeling between her thighs that she just couldn't blame on the drink.

Fighting to ignore the urge to vomit, she finished undressing and laid her ruined pants and underwear to one side. The logical part of her brain that was barely functioning told her she needed to destroy the evidence as quickly as possible, whilst the other half told her that she needed to let Ivan know. Something with the surgery had obviously gone wrong. Unless –

Unless there had been no surgery. As Natalia stood under the spray of the shower and ran her hands through her matted hair she tried to remember every part of the surgery process that she could. She remembered going in and vaguely recalled coming out, but what stood out most was what the doctors had told her, over and over.

"_Vy besplodnyy. This will benefit you. We lose too many to unwanted pregnancies. If you want to be the best, Natalia, than you will accept your position as a spy and not as a mother. You will no longer need to worry about this."_

The conversation had always been the same, for as long as she could remember. Ever since they had started sticking big needles in her tiny arms, they had been feeding her the same stories, assuring her that she was protected against everything her own body could possibly weaken her with.

Natalia shampooed her hair quickly and moved on to the conditioner without really thinking about what she was doing. Her legs felt weak and her vision was doubling, a side affect of the alcohol no doubt. She cautiously lowered herself to the floor of the shower and tried to think clearly for a moment.

Taking a deep breath, she stuck her fingers as far into her mouth as possible and almost immediately turned away, her chest heaving as she vomited onto the tiles. Once she started she couldn't stop, and she continued to throw up until she was merely gagging on air. Though her throat now burned for an entirely different reason, she felt significantly better and trusted herself to stand.

Once the conditioner was rinsed out fully Natalia shut off the shower and stepped back into the steam filled room. She wrapped a towel around herself and stopped in front of the mirror to observe her reflection. Her neck was red and already a little bruised, and strands of her hair had fallen onto her bare shoulders.

She turned and tried to see where her hair was cut, hand reaching up to comb through the shorter parts. It looked horrible and messy; she felt like crying and screaming and acting like a child, but knew better than to cause a fuss. Instead, she found a pair of scissors in a drawer and set to work on fixing the damage.

One by one, locks of her hair fell into piles around her feet. She decided that she was doing a pretty decent job, considering her brain was still pleasantly foggy and the scissors weren't as sharp as an actual hairdressers would be. She cut her hair to her shoulders, ruffled it up and watched the ends curl slightly in fascination.

A sudden wave of nausea had her curling in on herself and leaving the bathroom to find fresh clothes to wear to bed. There was blood on the towel that she ignored as she slipped into a pair of pyjama shorts and a loose shirt that she suspected wasn't hers. It was a band shirt, worn and a few sizes too big, and when she had first pulled it out upon her return from Russia it had smelt distinctively different to her other clothes.

She tried not to think about it as she climbed into bed and rested her pounding head on her pillow. There was a glass of water left on her bedside table from that morning, and she supposed it would have to suffice for when she woke up next.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and let her body relax as she slid easily into unconsciousness.

* * *

There was something wet on the bed beneath her skin, and for a second Natalia forgot about what had happened the previous night.

Bringing a hand up to her face, she brushed against the short edges of her hair and gasped as everything fell into place; Ivan, the alcohol, her hair, the blood –

The blood. Natalia sat up, ignoring the dizziness that almost overwhelmed her, and pushed the covers back to reveal a large patch of blood on her sheets and the front of her shorts.

Panic flooded through her as she stood and ran to her drawers to try and find something to change into. Her room was a mess, and the bathroom was no better, but all she could think of was to destroy the evidence before anybody saw.

She had a pair of yoga pants in one hand and was about to change when the lock clicked and her door swung open.

Ivan stared at her bed first. Natalia's heart hammered in her chest as she froze and tried not to panic. She itched to cover herself with the yoga pants, to lie and make up another excuse for the blood, but the movement would draw Ivan's attention back to her sooner rather than later.

After a lengthy moment of silence, Ivan turned to regard her carefully. "When did this happen?"

Natalia swallowed around the lump in her throat. When she spoke, her voice was a hoarse whisper. "Last night."

Ivan nodded, rubbing his hand over his mouth. "I see."

Natalia stood up straighter and raised her chin to meet his gaze steadily, locking away all of her emotions easily and letting a blank expression fall over her face. "I was under the impression that I had surgery to prevent this."

For half a second, Ivan looked completely confused as to what she was talking about, but he recovered quickly and smiled reassuringly. "Yes, indeed. The only explanation is that the surgery must have been unsuccessful. These things happen."

"Has it happened to anybody else?" she asked warily. "Or is it just me?"

Ivan's smile faltered. "I wouldn't know. There is always an exception, Natalia, you know this."

Natalia nodded automatically, preoccupied with her thoughts. Something about this whole scenario felt wrong in her head, like she was missing something important. "Of course" she responded smoothly, not letting any of her internal thoughts show on her face. "I was just curious."

"Of course" Ivan echoed, but he was staring at her oddly now, as though he had only just realised she was actually standing there. "What has happened has happened."

"What now then?" she said, eyes narrowing. "More surgery?"

"Surgery?" Ivan murmured, still staring and still rubbing his mouth. "Oh. I will need to speak to the doctors in Russia before we proceed. Yes, they will need to know... it began last night, you said?"

Natalia frowned but nodded, hands clenching around the yoga pants. Ivan was distracted, something that hardly ever occurred, and it was making her uncomfortable to see him like this. For as long as she could remember he had been controlled and sure; even when he was drunk, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Now he looked lost and wary of her, as if she might suddenly sprout wings and take off. "I was going to tell you this morning" she lied, hoping to snap him out of whatever trance he was currently in. "This is how I woke up."

Ivan glanced at her stained shorts and shook his head slightly, his movements jerky. With his attention now focused back on her, Natalia became increasingly aware of the dull ache in her lower abdomen and the feeling between her legs. If she moved she knew it would only feel worse, so she continued to stay still, barely breathing as she waited to see what he would do.

Ivan left the room. She breathed deeply as she heard him move around down the hall, his actions louder than usual. She contemplated getting changed now, whilst he was gone, but decided it was no use; with nothing to stop the blood from soaking through her new pants, there was really no point in bothering.

When Ivan returned he carried with him a metal box with a thick lock hanging from the latch. He placed it on the ground a few feet away from her and didn't turn to look at her as he spoke. "Everything you need is in there."

He left without leaving a key, shutting the door behind him. Natalia dropped to her knees beside the box and picked it up, weighing it carefully in her hands. The lock would be easy enough to pick, though it was an obstacle she wished she could avoid.

Standing with the box, she found a bobby pin on her dresser and sat on the bed, not caring about leaving anymore stains. It took her longer than it usually would to pick the lock, but once the latch was free she tossed it to the side and wasted no time in prying the lid open.

The only thing the box contained was a packet of tampons and a pamphlet advertising a Mirena IUD. Natalia stared at both objects before reaching in to take out the pamphlet, holding it carefully as though it were a grenade and not a piece of paper.

99% effective at preventing pregnancy. Lasts up to 5 years. Natalia read the front page over and over, trying to figure out why Ivan had kept this box when she shouldn't have needed it in the first place. If he had a pamphlet for an IUD, then surely he must have known that the surgery was unsuccessful.

Natalia took the box of tampons and the yoga pants into the bathroom to change. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that something important was missing. She felt like she had to be somewhere, she just had no idea where that somewhere was, and it was driving her insane.

Sighing, she kicked a pile of her hair off of the bathroom mat and shucked her ruined shorts, tossing them into the same pile as her jeans from the night before. She was quickly running out of time to get ready for school, but the urge to shower was too strong.

Taking another deep breath, she forced all of her thoughts to the back of her mind and instead focused on cleaning herself up and preparing for the day ahead.

* * *

Clint shifted his backpack into a more comfortable position on his shoulder and checked his phone for the fourth time since he had been waiting on the side of the road. School started in ten minutes, and Clint knew that he would be late now; he'd been waiting for Natasha to appear, but there was no sign of her.

She would definitely be late, even if she got a lift in somehow. Natasha's place was a twenty minute walk from his, and it took another fifteen minutes to get to school from his house. Wherever she was, he couldn't wait any longer for her, and with a sigh he began to walk towards the main road.

The silence, though broken by the occasional birch chirp, was stifling, and Clint felt incredibly lonely without Natasha by his side. He wanted to see her and talk to her, question her about what was going on. At the same time, he felt clingy and ridiculous for worrying so much.

Natasha wasn't the same girl he had met four years ago. Back then she'd been new, lost in a foreign country with no other friends. Now, she could easily find a group of other friends and become more popular; there were plenty of people who wanted to hang out with Natasha, even though half of them only wanted to because of her looks.

Clint could understand why she wouldn't want to be his friend anymore, but it didn't make it hurt any less. Pretending that she didn't even know him was a low blow, especially for her.

The sound of traffic became increasingly louder as Clint drew nearer to the main road. He passed by several houses and paused at the edge of the footpath, checking both ways before he crossed. It was as he glanced to his right that he caught sight of Natasha crossing the road, not bothering to watch for oncoming traffic. Tyres screeched as a car came to a sudden stop, narrowly avoiding hitting her.

She didn't spare the driver a second glance as she continued on into school. Cursing under his breath, Clint jogged across the road and easily caught up to her as she picked her way between the stragglers that hadn't made it to class yet. As soon as he had a chance he grasped her upper arm and yanked her sideways, pulling her after him until he reached the tree they sometimes had lunch under.

"What the hell are you doing?" he growled, clenching his fists at his sides.

She frowned and shoved him in the chest, putting some more distance between them. He knew that she hated to be cornered, and the feeling of the bark against her back was obviously making her uneasy. "What do _you_ want?" she hissed, eyes flashing.

"You could've gotten yourself killed! God Natasha, is it so hard to pause and look before you cross?" he snapped. His eyes drifted over her face and he noticed her hair, still curly but so much shorter than it had been yesterday. He reached out a hand and brushed it cautiously over the shorter locks. "What did you do?"

Natalia froze momentarily as his hand grazed her cheek before he dropped it to his side stiffly, ducking his head. This boy shouldn't feel as familiar as he did; she didn't know him, and the few times that he had tried to speak to her always ended badly.

Still, she didn't know him. Whatever she was feeling was a lie, a stupid mind game that he was playing on her. She didn't need him following her around anymore than she needed somebody to tell her what she could or could not do. If she wanted to cross the road without looking then she would whether he liked it or not.

"What I do is none of your business" she said through gritted teeth. "Now leave me alone and go to your own class."

Clint groaned and tugged at his hair in frustration. "You love your hair long Nat. You don't look when you cross the road because you think cars aren't that dangerous. And I _know_ that you haven't forgotten me. You can't have."

"When I say that I have never met you, I mean it"' Natalia muttered. She sidestepped around him and immediately began putting as much distance between them as she could, slightly unsettled by his words. "Now leave me alone. If you continue to harass me I will not hesitate to take you down."

Clint struggled to let her walk away from him again, her harsh words ringing in his ears. He allowed her the time to enter the building before following after her slowly, dragging his feet and hunching his shoulders.

He felt like shit. He could see Natasha at her locker, pulling her chemistry books out and shoving her bag in. Clint had no idea how she'd managed to get to school without passing him at least once, though he didn't put it past her to manage it. He tried not to stare at her hair as she left for her class, but he felt as though this was her final way of cutting all ties to the world she had left behind when she went to Russia.

Clint made his way over to his own locker and checked his timetable to see what books he needed for his first class of the day. His head ached from the sheer amount of thoughts that were running through his mind, and as he emptied the books from his bag into his locker he pretended that they were his problems; Natasha not remembering him, his dad beating him, Barney robbing him, his mother doing _nothing_.

His hands were shaking when he finally slammed his locker shut and stored away all of his problems, leaving his mind clear and blank for the first time in days. He took a deep breath and set off towards his first class, determination etched onto his face.

He _would_ fix everything, but for now, he needed to focus on getting through the day, and if that meant forgetting about everything, then he would easily pretend that everything was fine.

He had been doing it for years. Another day wasn't going to kill him.

* * *

**Translations (sorry for any inaccuracy!):**

**Otvratitel'no= Disgusting. **

**Vy besplodnyy= You are infertile. **


End file.
